


For the Hardest Workers of All

by HM (HyperMint)



Series: Carrots, Apples and Poppies [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, possible ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 10:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperMint/pseuds/HM
Summary: A little office Christmas fluff.





	For the Hardest Workers of All

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You and Sugar Plums](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093608) by [canolacrush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/pseuds/canolacrush). 



> AN: Damn it, I told myself I wouldn't ever write a POI fic and that obviously backfired. 
> 
> Anyway, Happy late Christmas in July! I thought about waiting to post this, but I just thought this was too cute to keep to myself and it's never too early to write Christmas type fluff, so...
> 
> Special plot bunny thanks to canolacrush for the beautifully written Johnlock story 'You and Sugar Plums' that sparked a different story. This idea probably wouldn't have happened without you, so dearest thanks!
> 
> Readers, if you like Johnlock, I highly encourage you to head on over there and hopefully get the completed story by the end of the year. Definitely a Christmas story that should be 'crack', but is really well done.
> 
> I hope you find this little fic as cute as I did. Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Person of Interest is a fun playground to visit, but I don't own any of it.

* * *

“Pick a number.”

Harold had heard the same question around this time for the past five years and still didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Is there a range?” he asked, glancing at his… something as they sat in the employee break room of Harold’s company.

The both of them had met five years ago, John Reese clicking with him in a way no one else ever had – ever would – and the two had become more or less inseparable ever since. Nathan had probably known that there was something else to their easy friendship long before Harold had even the slightest inkling and the night shift security guard had been so discreet that several people had had to tell Harold that he was interested.

Whatever they were to each other, it was still too new to categorize so they didn’t even try.

Recently, Harold couldn’t help thinking that they’d been dating for the past two years though not in quite the way anyone else would call dating. Harold only knew the other existed after accidently spilling his hot tea all over the man in the lobby one early evening and they’d hit it off almost immediately after that.

Due to Harold’s habitual late hours and John’s night shift, they saw quite a bit of each other and neither had had to go out of his way to invite the other to a late dinner or an early breakfast or even to a cup of tea. Cups of his Sencha Green Tea had even started showing up at his desk when Harold couldn’t stay late enough to see John and Nathan had always commented on his ‘depression’ during those uncommon times.

But that was then and this was now, John sprawled back in his chair as he thoughtfully watched the sparkly Christmas decorations over Harold’s shoulder.

“Alright,” he nodded. “Eighteen through fifty.”

Harold thought a moment before tilting his head. “Twenty eight.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll be explaining it this year, will you?” he asked the same question every year. John couldn’t ask him to pick a number and not expect the Third Degree about it.

“I don’t know,” he answered the same in response every year. “Will I?”

Harold narrowed his eyes at the innocent look, that same question being asked to him as if he was the one who decided whether or not he would get his answer this year.

“I’m still not sure what you mean by that,” he huffed.

“Maybe this year you will,” John smiled slightly, his blue eyes always warm when Harold looked into them. “Stranger things have happened.”

* *

Speaking of strange things, Harold walked into the office the day before Christmas Eve and knew without a doubt that their mysterious Secret Santa had struck again.

It all started six years ago, Harold finding a festive cupcake wrapped prettily on his desk and thinking it had been Nathan. The year after that, a sugar cookie with festive sprinkles that Nathan swore he had nothing to do with.

The next year, a gingerbread cookie of a present; then a handmade ornament the year after that. A Christmas card marked year five and last year had been a sort of makeshift gift basket with a holiday mug, a candy cane, peppermint bark, a packet or two of apple cider mix, a stick of cinnamon and – Harold’s personal favorite – a Harry Potter Chocolate Frog that came with a Card he had stashed away in his favorite book.

And it wasn’t just Harold that got the gifts – which was one thing -, but the _entire office building_ including the cleaning staff.

No one knew who it was or why they did it every year for all of them, but Harold would see a broken hearted young co-worker light up with a long absent sparkle in her eyes or a stressed out colleague do a double-take before relaxing in his chair as if the year hadn’t happened or office squabbles turn into delighted laughter and wouldn’t have the heart to demand their anonymous benefactor’s identity.

This year, a thin slice of chocolate cake greeted him as he slid behind his desk, John’s Sencha tea sat to the side as it propped up two packets of cocoa mix.

John had once told him that he long suspected one of their own as the one responsible, but Harold told him it didn’t matter. There was nothing wrong with having a Secret Santa when the entire building benefitted from them and Harold wouldn’t hear a bad thing about it. No one’s yet had an allergic reaction to any of it, strangely enough, and it was good for morale before everyone left for Christmas.

Harold worked with a smile on his face as the day wore on, the building slowly emptying as everyone took off for the holidays or the rest of the year. Since he was one of the company’s owners, he’d managed to get John an extra day off which meant that they could at least spend the rest of tonight together and possibly Christmas if the taller man was amenable. Harold didn’t know what the other did during the year’s various holidays or usual days off, but was still too unsure of their relationship to ask at the risk of sounding nosy.

He counted down the hours until he could skirt the time between late and early while still being able to see John without seeming too eager and calmly locked everything down when he deemed it time.

He made his way out of his office and took the elevator to the lobby to hopefully meet up with John, who knew his true status in the company somehow and still treated him the same as before Harold realized his secret was out.

Harold didn’t see him at the security desk when he limped up, but the small Christmas tree someone had installed on the desk barely peeked over the edge and it took a moment to realize that the tree had moved from on top to behind the ledge where the security staff sat. It took another moment for him to shake that realization away, reasoning that he never really paid much attention to the small tree after hours and it may have been someone’s way of saying it was late and the tree could sit where it wanted to after sundown.

“Mr. Reese?” he called out, stopping at the desk and seeing a door open down the small security staff corridor with the light on. “Are you back there?”

“Just a minute,” John called back. “I need to finish this before my boss kicks me out for Christmas.”

“I’m sure he’ll wait a few minutes before resorting to that,” he couldn’t help chuckling.

Wondering if it would be too forward of him to offer help in John’s project, Harold decided to have a seat while he waited and rounded the desk. He reached out for the chair John usually took over and stopped as his eyes caught the small Christmas tree – and what lay under it.

Around the base of the small tree, ornaments scattered among the branches, the single string of lights reflected off the cellophane wrapping of at least a dozen goody bags that were each tied off with either red, green or gold ribbon. Each bag contained at least three small cookies with pink frosting and multi-colored sprinkles on them. Each bag also boasted a small tag and a closer look at one revealed ‘H 12’ written on it with John’s familiar handwriting.

Harold’s brow furrowed as he puzzled over the strange display – especially once he found that every other tag contained a different letter ‘A’ to ‘Z’ with no pattern to the numbers involved – , hand still on the forgotten chair, until the sound of a door closing brought his attention to the approaching footsteps.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” John didn’t miss a beat as he came up to his side with his jacket over one arm and a box full of more cookie filled bags in the other. “This won’t take long.”

Growing ever more puzzled, Harold watched John gently rest the box on a free bit of space on the table and carefully transferred the other bags under the tree with a concentration Harold usually associated with handling multiple beverages at once. 

“There we are,” he smiled to himself. “Thanks for your help, Harold,” he turned the smile on Harold, who suddenly couldn’t think as he stared up at him and strangely focused on the Christmas lights reflected in warm eyes.

“You’re more than welcome,” he finally managed, forcing his attention back to the tree and the wrapped pink frosted cookies it sheltered. “For what?” he belatedly frowned back at him.

“I couldn’t decide how many to make,” John shrugged, watching him turn back to the tree.

“Why? How many cookies are there?”

“I can fish the bag out of the trash if you want,” he offered. “I buy the cookies depending on the number of bags you tell me to leave out.”

“Number of bags?” his bespectacled gaze narrowed as he mentally counted the bags and came up with…

Twenty-eight.

‘Pick a number,’ the request came to him so clearly, it was almost as if John had spoken right into his ear.

So that’s what ‘pick a number’ was about? The number of these small bags?

…

“Good Lord!” he suddenly realized. “I picked a hundred last year!”

“And I’m sure it was appreciated,” John chuckled.

“I had no idea you were telling me to pick the number of bags to make,” his horrified gaze turned to John, Harold unable to forget every high number he’d almost suggested in jest. There had been at least once that he’d almost said a thousand and the implications of that sunk in to make him feel even more guilty at the work he’d inadvertently put John through.

“Hey,” his guilt must have come through in his expression because John suddenly looked concerned as he reached out to brush his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry for all the work I must have put you through,” he told him, unable to stop the warm feeling in his chest as John brushed his cheek again.

John blinked before realization dawned and a soft smile was bestowed upon him with what seemed like fondness. “That’s what I like about you, Harold,” he confided. “The fact that you focus on the trouble you think you put me through instead of the reason why I’m even bothering to do it.”

It took him an embarrassingly long time to understand his words and he felt a telling heat cross his face. “Oh. Yes… I – I see why that might be endearing…” he really didn’t, but John seemed content to keep smiling at him anyway.

“Well?” John prompted a long minute later, the both of them standing closer to each other than they needed to in the quiet, empty and otherwise dark lobby.

“Well, what?” he blinked, his thoughts somehow struggling to gain a foothold in his head as he studied John as silently as John watched him.

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Ask about what?”

“Why I’m making the bags and who they’re for.”

Harold stared and blinked before the conversation came back to him and he gave his head a good shake. “Yes, yes, of course,” he turned his attention back to the tree and picked one up that said ‘C 8’. “I’m not quite sure what this is all about,” he held it up to John, who took it with a nod.

“It started about six years ago,” he explained, turning the bag around in his hands as he did so. “I was talking to Fusco, who was saying how his kid was determined to leave cookies and milk for Santa every year. And I was at the store a few days later for a cupcake when I came across a bag of already made cookies and I remembered what he said about Santa. This might sound ridiculous,” a small smile appeared on his face as he looked down at the bag, “but I thought about how Santa gets all kinds of treats every year from adoring fans all over the world and felt kind of bad for his ‘Christmas helpers’. It’s always about Santa, isn’t it? No one really thinks about the Elves that make things happen. Then I started wondering if the Elves ever felt… irrelevant when Christmas ends every year and there’s nothing set out for them.

“And, well, I was suddenly making goody bags full of store bought cookies when I realized that I didn’t actually know anything about the Elves and whether they were girls or boys or what names they could possibly have. I told Santa that first year that I had no idea about Elves, but that I was going to leave treats for them instead of for him and I was going to do it by alphabetical first name and I started keeping a list of the ones I made the bags for to keep track of them all. This one, for example, ‘C 8’ is for the eighth Elf with the letter ‘C’ for the first name. Or the sixteenth Elf with the letter ‘J’ and so on. I wasn’t sure how many to make, really, but you helped out in that regard a year later,” Harold was dimly aware of the smile turned at himself because he was too busy staring at the smile’s owner as that warmth in his chest grew.

John Reese, former Military, suspected ex-Special Forces and ex-CIA – though no one could prove it -, asked him to give him a number every Christmas so that he could come up with an appropriate amount of goody bags to keep a league of Elves that might not even exist from feeling irrelevant and unsure of themselves because he felt bad about their lack of recognition.

Swallowing thickly, he nodded. “Alright,” he managed to get out. “Well,” he swallowed again, the warmth growing a little more at the softened look in John’s eyes, “well, I … I suspect that you’ve just made twenty-eight Elves feel very relevant this year. For the thought if nothing else. And twenty-eight people who will be getting the cookies in their stead. Or… I suppose that’s what happens when you collect them after Christmas.”

John suddenly had a thoughtful look on his face as he tilted his head. “Actually, I don’t know what happens to them after Christmas. They’re always gone before I can get back to them, but everyone I’ve asked over the years claims they didn’t take them or even know they were there to begin with. I’ve tried to find out who takes them, but that security camera pointing this way above the door doesn’t cover what goes on behind the desk. And I’ve looked the footage over every year, but I’m always the last one I see on the tape and the first one behind the desk a few days later and no one else even came close to the tree in the time between.”

“Maybe Santa took them back home to the Elves,” Harold couldn’t help the shiver that went down his spine at the revelation.

“You know, I sometimes have to wonder that, myself.”

Disappearing Elf presents aside, “It’s getting rather late,” he noted the time on his watch.

“I guess so,” John nodded. He unplugged the small Christmas tree, the cookies waiting in the darkened lobby for their mysterious ride, and shrugged his coat on as Harold bundled up for the weather outside.

It wasn’t quite snowing, yet, but it was cold enough to.

The sounds of their footsteps were the only things Harold heard as John let him precede himself out of the building and locked up. They were walking away from the building when Harold glanced at his companion from under the brim of his hat and ventured, “You can always come to me for help, you know. I… If this is too personal, I apologize, but… If you ever need help with your irrelevant Elves…” he trailed off, his courage deserting him.

“You already help, Harold,” John pointed out with a contented smile. “You give me the number I need. But… if you don’t mind,” he suddenly sounded uncertain, “maybe one day I’ll get another hundred and I’ll need help with that.”

“If _you_ don’t mind a partner,” Harold found a bright smile for him, something that felt like excitement at the thought curling around that spreading warmth in his chest, “it would be my pleasure.”

“Alright, then,” they solemnly shook hands before continuing on.

It wasn’t until they were both waiting in line for a taxi that something John had said earlier came trickling back to Harold.

“John,” he frowned, a suspicion making his eyes narrow. “How long did you say you were already here before we met?”

“A year. So… that makes six years now that I’ve been with your company.”

Six years…

That’s when –

Irrelevant Elves…

And he’d barely noticed the handmade ornament on that small tree, the colors inversed but virtually identical to the one he’d received from  …

“Why did you want to know?” the knowing smile on John’s face, in his eyes, in his tone, made the warmth grow even more and rise as an office wide mystery suddenly found an answer.

Harold slowly tilted his head down, his hat hiding a suddenly tremulous smile as his hand reached over to sneak into John’s. He had a sneaking suspicion about that warmth he found himself never wanting to be without again as he shook his head.

“No reason.”

* ** * ** *

END

 


End file.
